


A Reflection In Blue

by booksarenotboringyouare



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt, anyway stan braime, post battle for winterfell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2020-01-31 11:14:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18590128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/booksarenotboringyouare/pseuds/booksarenotboringyouare
Summary: Jaime is sure that he is dying, cold and alone in the ruins of Winterfell.  His mind begins to wander as he defines his final moments~Post Battle for Winterfell imagine





	A Reflection In Blue

**Author's Note:**

> hi it’s nearly 1 am and this is my first got fic forgive me

He’s cold.

Jaime nearly laughs aloud when that thought arises in his weary brain. A glance at his surroundings reveal snow mounds as tall as himself and icicles bigger than swords. A thick, icy fog that seemed to glow blue gave everything a faintly frozen appearance, and Jaime shivered once again. Up until tonight, it was a battle that got his heart racing, his blood boiling and turned his skin to solid yet scorching gold. Now, however, he sits huddled in a corner of the ruins of Winterfell, clutching his bleeding side and shivering with the seemingly unending cold.

For a brief second Jaime contemplated what freezing to death would feel like. Would it take long? Would he even notice when his breathing slowed in time with his heartbeat? He closed his eyes and suppressed a wince. At least it would be better than being burnt, he thought, and the nameless faces of the hundreds of people that he saw Aerys murder swam in his mind, pleading and crying for help, as they turned to ashes in front of his young eyes. 

Jaime shook his head frantically to himself, willing, begging his brain not to get caught up in another unwanted memory, now of all times. He wanted to die in peace, his mind should allow him at least that, he thought bitterly. 

In the background Jaime could hear the wailing of husbands and wives as they discovered their partner’s body. He heard the screams of fathers and mothers as they heard of their children’s demise. He also heard the victory cheers and the tears of joy that came from the exhausted yet valiant army. He even heard Lady Stark a while ago, standing on the battlements, proclaiming the battle won. She spoke with the grace and eloquence of someone twice her age, and Jaime desperately prayed to be let into Heaven, if only for a second, to tell Catelyn Stark of just how far her daughter had come.

Jaime knew that he could probably move. Could probably walk himself out into an open space, where somebody might mistake him for someone worth saving and call for assistance. He remained hidden however, in a frozen pool of his own cold blood, new scars adorning his face and the stump at the end of his arm being cradled by his remaining hand. This is where he would die. This is where he deserved to die, alone and cold. 

He thought of Tyrion, and how much he would miss him. Tyrion, who, despite everything, trusted and loved him. His little bother, who Jaime carved toys for when they were children, and taught him how to use a sword. Tyrion was always hopeless with his sword, but he enjoyed the time spent with his older brother all the same. A tear rolled down Jaime’s cheek, unbidden, and Jaime wondered if Tyrion was even alive. He prayed to any and every God, and he asked a favour he didn’t feel he deserved. Keep my brother safe. Keep my brother alive.

Cersei floats gracefully into his mind then, all flowing locks and dresses, pretty grins and subtle laughs. Another image arises, of cold eyes and sharp words, cruel actions and a callous soul. Jaime wondered if the first version of her even existed, or if her romantic words of them living, existing and dying together were just another ploy to ensure his loyalty. She must have loved him at one point, he knows it. But her love was self-centred and false and Jaime wants no part in it anymore, and certainly not in his dying moments. He thinks of their children, though. He had been thinking of them a lot lately.

He had seen Joffrey die. Horrible and prolonged. It was painful to watch and worse to remember. What hurt him most, however, was the utter lack of genuine sadness that he felt when he thought of his eldest son’s death. Joffrey was uncontrollably vile, a bad person and a worse king. However, Jaime still felt an oppressive block of guilt settle on his chest when he thought of his own reaction. Joffrey was still his son, even if he never knew it. The fact that Jaime almost felt relieved at his death horrified him, and his head hurt even more.

Myrcella was an entirely different story. Cersei never let him be around any of her children growing up, and for the vast majority of the time he didn’t care. His apathy outshone his honour, and he avoided his children in turn. When Myrcella confessed on that boat back from Dorne however, that she knew and that she was glad, Jaime never felt prouder or happier. Myrcella’s smile was carved into his heart, and as she hugged him Jaime felt his exterior melt and his mouth begin to curve into a smile, simple and genuine and natural. But then her nose began bleeding and her eyes began blinking and she was on the floor in his arms and no, no, no this couldn’t be happening - Myrcella? Myrcella? Myrcella?

Jaime took another shuddering breath, and willed himself not to break into a million jagged pieces. Tommen’s death hurt the most. It was the only one he didn’t see happen, the only one that he couldn’t directly blame someone for. Tommen, the sweet, sweet child who loved nothing more than to play with kittens and listen to stories. Tommen, the boy forced to be King and who was too soft, too malleable, too good. Tommen, his gorgeous baby boy. Tommen, who flung himself from the Red Keep. Jaime had always been closest with his youngest son. Maybe he and Cersei had become lax over the years in regards to their strict secrecy. Maybe Tommen reminded Jaime too much of an infant Tyrion in all his innocent goodness. Whatever it was, Jaime found himself drawn to Tommen, and at feasts he would joke around with the boy, and during dull, endless ceremonies would lay a hand on his back to keep him upright lest he fall asleep on his feet. Tommen radiated goodness and kindness and now he was just another Lannister corpse, like his brother and his sister and his grandfather, and it broke Jaime’s heart.

Jaime thought about killing himself many times over many years, but never had the courage to do it. When Aerys would shout and scream his name or when the crowds of people yelling ‘Kingslayer!’ became too loud or when he was left a cripple or when- Jaime’s breathing became too fast, and it took all his concentration to calm himself down. To know that Tommen felt as he oftimes had, and to know that it became so overwhelming that he took the extra step, it tore Jaime to pieces.

Mainly, Jaime never killed himself because he believed in one of two outcomes. Either he would die at battle, die a knight and die with some semblance of honour. Or he would die with Cersei, as she always said he would, and he would die at peace. Now however, he would die cold and alone, a forgotten body amongst a sea of corpses. The Battle for Winterfell was won, the Long Night prevented, and Jaime felt that he could die knowing that the future would exist, and that life would go on without him.

His body began to ache even more, and his heart seemed to slow in time with his breath. His last moments were upon him, he knew it. He tried to clear his head, to think of nothing at all, and to slip into Hell through the silence of his mind.

But a pair of blue eyes kept materialising in his brain. Beautiful blue eyes, calm and determined. Vulnerable blue eyes, safe and reassuring. Passionate blue eyes, endless and hopeful. The sapphire blue eyes of Ser Brienne of Tarth. An instinctive smile crossed Jaime’s face, and he reached out to touch her as if she was really there. 

“Brienne” he said, for no one but him. He knew she survived the battle, heard her announce the defeat of the Night Army to Lady Stark. If peace were a person, and if that person were unique to each person, Brienne would be Jaime’s, now and forever. He tried to remember when he first met her, how she looked and what she said and how awful he was, but his head pounds and his memories always hurt so he settles for picturing her smile and her face and her gorgeous, righteous soul.

Jaime wished for a great many things in his life. He wished that his mother had lived, his mother who could soften his father and Cersei and who would love Tyrion even though he was different. He wished that he had never become a Kingsguard, that he never swore any oath to protect King Aerys, the worst man Jaime had ever met. He wished Ned Stark has believed his explanation. He wished that he never pushed Brandon Stark from that window. He wished that his children were alive and well. He wished that he was warm. 

But most of all he wished for her.

He wished for another life where he and Brienne could live. Where he could hold her hand and kiss her cheek, her nose, her forehead, her lips. He wished that he got to tell her how he felt before the battle, he wished that more than anything right now. 

He heard footsteps approaching, and imagined it might be Death. Hell would he warm, at least. Jaime could use some warmth, the fires would hurt and haunt him, but he deserved it, he knew. 

He wondered for a second if there was nothing after death, and he faintly hoped so. Jaime had not slept through the night without a nightmare in years, decades. Nothing would be bliss, nothing would be perfect.

“Ser Jaime! Jaime!”

It was funny, he thought, Death sounded just like Brienne. He opened his eyes to greet the eternal darkness, and found only a sea of blue.

“Jaime, look at me. I’m going to bring you into the Great Hall where someone will bandage up your wound. You’re going to live, Jaime. Jaime! Look at me! You have to live.”

Jaime was tired, so tired and so confused and so happy to hear her voice even though it might be that of Death.

“Brienne?”

“Yes, Jaime?”

He stared into her eyes and found himself lost for a moment, before he blinked and realised she was real.

“I am most fond of you, you know.”

It wasn’t at all how Jaime wanted it to come out and he found himself blinking more frequently with the urgency of a man who needs sleep more than air.

He saw Brienne smile as she hoisted him to her side and slung his arm around her shoulder. Pressed against her side, Jaime felt warmer that he had in years, and hoped that he would live. Live to see her smile and laugh and to say that he loves her.

“I hope that too.”

With a startled jolt Jaime realised that he’d been speaking aloud, but in his exhaustion found that he didn’t mind at all.

He really hoped he wouldn’t die.

**Author's Note:**

> stan braime


End file.
